


Reason Why You Came (Reason Why You Ought To Go)

by extasiswings



Series: Such Selfish Prayers [2]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mob, Catholic Guilt, F/M, First Meetings, Friends With Benefits, Honey Over Knives Queen, Organized Crime, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:51:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<em>Matthew</em>," Elektra says, rewinding. It's practically a purr. "I have a wildly successful fashion line and what will, after this merger with the Bishops, be the most successful publishing house in at least half of the country. Wilson Fisk has...whatever it is he has. Tell me—" </p><p>She falls backward into a dip, just slow enough that he can keep ahold of her even while slowing his reflexes to normal speed, and when he pulls her back up, her lips are centimeters from his. </p><p>"If you were my lawyer," she continues, "would you recommend I take this deal?" </p><p>He's surrounded in her—her scent, her arms, her voice. It's hard to breathe. </p><p>"No," he breathes finally, and his lips just barely brush hers on the exhale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fifty Words For Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I said there would be more and here it is. Angst galore because of Matt's enormous levels of Catholic Guilt (TM). You can thank shuofthewind for snarky FwB Matt/Natasha, but rest assured this series is Matt/Elektra all the way.

(It’s funny sometimes, the way things work out.)

A man falls to the floor after the cane hits him in the back of the knees—his chin slams into the ground and blood fills his mouth from where he’s bit his tongue hard enough to pierce the skin. 

“My employer doesn’t like being cheated, Mr. Ranskahov.” 

(Matt still remembers the way people couldn’t wait to ask him what he wanted to do with his life as soon as he finished high school. It had been an easy question to answer at the time— _“A lawyer,”_ he always replied, a hint of a proud smile on his lips whenever he thought about how his dad would have felt about that) 

“I wasn’t trying to—” _Lie_ , his heartbeat whispers, and the cane whips out again, striking his face and slicing a cut above his eye. 

“I think you’re going to want to think very carefully about your response right now, Vladimir.” He flicks the hidden latch on the cane to release the blade inside and sets it to the side of the other man’s neck. “Very carefully.”

When Vladimir swallows, the movement presses the blade in just enough that blood wells up from the scratch. “Tell your employer he’ll get his money tonight.”

“Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” 

(Somehow, this isn’t what he imagined)

"Nice work," James Wesley says, clapping him on the shoulder as they turn to leave, Ranskahov bruised and groaning on the floor behind them. 

"Do I ever do anything else?" Matt shoots back. 

(Really isn't what he imagined)

.

.

.

It's funny the kinds of things that become a habit. 

_"Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been eight years since my last confession."_

_"...six months..."_

_"...three weeks..."_

_"...two days..."_

Before SHIELD, before Fisk, confession was something Matt would partake in when the nuns would send him with the younger kids at St. Agnes. After, it's almost a compulsion. 

(It doesn't make the guilt go away, but it holds it at bay a little, enough that he's not drowning every second)

In the car, Matt closes his eyes and lets the city rush in, tuning out James Wesley's phone conversation. He wants to forget about Fisk, about SHIELD, about Vladimir Ranskahov and the way the scents of fear and blood have seeped into the fabric of his suit. 

He wants to forget. 

Matt's knocking on the partition to stop the car before he even consciously registers the familiar smells of St. Patrick's—incense and candle wax and cool stone. Wesley pauses his conversation and raises an eyebrow when the car pulls over to the curb. 

"I have an errand," Matt replies, not bothering to wait for the other man to voice his silent question. 

Wesley glances out the window at the church and hums thoughtfully. "Is that wise? Spending so much time with the same priest?"

"Sanctity of the confessional," Matt says as he opens the door. "He couldn't talk even if he wanted to. There are rules."

"Maybe I should come with you," Wesley remarks. "I've always been intrigued by the notion of confession." 

_Don't_ , Matt wants to snap, but he has more control than that. He smiles instead. 

"You're more than welcome to join me," he offers. "I'm sure my priest would be happy to tell you all about it."

It's the right move. Wesley waves him off and turns back to his call, only throwing out one final reminder—"The gala starts at eight"—as Matt slips from the car. 

Father Lantom pauses in his sweeping when the door opens and Matt hears the quiet sigh he lets out. 

“Matthew. Here for coffee or confession?” There’s no judgment in his voice, but there’s something. Sadness. Exhaustion. 

“Confession. If you’re free.” 

“Of course. I’ll get ready,” he replies. 

Matt walks over to the confessional and settles in, taking his glasses off and running a hand over his face. He’s exhausted. Bone-meltingly exhausted. And the last thing he wants to do is go home after this and put on a tux and go to a party, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

The other side of the confessional opens and Father Lantom sits down. 

“Bless me father, for I have sinned. It has been three days since my last confession.” 

It only takes ten minutes and then it’s over. Matt reaches for the door, but pauses when Father Lantom clears his throat. 

“Matthew—I—it may not be my business,” the priest starts. “And of course, I’ll always make myself available when you need, but…”

“But?”  
He sighs. “But, I think you may want to consider a change of profession.”

_Trust me, Father. I would love nothing more._

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

.

.

.

It starts with SHIELD. 

Well, no, that's not quite right. It really starts with Stick. 

(Screaming in a bed, hands clapped over his ears—too much, hurts, I _can't_ —

"Come on, kid. Get up.")

Stick shows up at the orphanage when Matt's ten years old, grief-stricken and completely unable to control his powers. He smells like smoke and earth and he's the only one who doesn't treat Matt like he's something fragile. Stick teaches him control—over his powers, himself—and more than that, he gives him an outlet for his grief, his rage, his _guilt_. 

(He takes it all away just as quickly, a paper bracelet crushed in his fist, and there are parts of Matt that have never forgiven him, parts that probably never will, but there are just as many that thank him for it)

Matt lasts three years in college before listening to sirens every night isn't enough. When he finally goes out, cloth wrapped around his eyes, he feels better than he ever has. 

Stick comes for him the next morning, before the split skin on his knuckles even has a chance to heal over. 

("SHIELD."

"We're fighting a war no one else even knows exists, Matty. We help people before they even realize they need help. I want you to join us."

And so he does)

SHIELD trains him even more than Stick had—he's older now, can focus better, take more hits—but they don't let him fall off the map the way they do with some of the other agents. No, they have bigger plans for him, plans that involve him going to law school just like he'd always wanted. 

Plans that involve making sure he's perfectly placed to infiltrate the underbelly of Hell's Kitchen after graduation. Plans that put him directly in the path of Wilson Fisk. 

_"It's a great responsibility. You have the chance to make a real difference."_

_Is that what I'm doing_ , Matt thinks as he fastens the cuffs of his tux shirt. Then the door clicks shut behind him and he heads towards the car. _Sure as hell doesn't feel that way._


	2. Lost Eyes and Guilty Minds

The party is a bust, a total waste of time, and Matt wishes he could be anywhere else. _Anywhere_ else. But instead he’s stuck in a hotel ballroom, a smile plastered on his face as strangers come around to shake his hand and talk business, as if he actually cares, as if Fisk actually cares about 99% of these people. 

_Christ, I need a drink._

He manages to escape the most recent no-name businessman in a fancy suit and too strong cologne and finally, blessedly, ends up at the bar. 

"Macallan, neat please," he orders, knocking it back more quickly than he should as soon as the bartender sets it in front of him. He’s just signaled for another when the air shifts around him. A swish of fabric, bracelets clinking together as an arm settles on the bar. Her perfume fills his nose, but although it’s strong, it isn’t cloying like so many of the other guests. Her skirt shifts and suddenly the sharp tang of steel is mixing with sandalwood and jasmine. 

_Sandalwood and clinking bracelets and a knife strapped to her thigh..._

"Tequila, please. Mezcal, if you have it.” Her voice is unfamiliar but lovely, rich and warm with the faintest hint of an accent. There’s something else underneath as well, something dark, and he imagines that she could turn razor sharp in an instant. 

_Honey over knives._

Matt steps to the side and bumps her, hoping it seems like an accident. "My apologies. I’m really, terribly sorry—"

"No harm done, Mr. Murdock,” she interrupts. “I don’t yet have a drink to spill, and I was planning to introduce myself anyway. You merely provided an opportunity.”

He raises an eyebrow and his lips curve into something a little more real. “I have to say, you have me at a bit of a loss. You know my name, but I don’t know yours, Miss…”

“Elektra. Elektra Natchios. And if you could tell your employer to stop calling me, I would very much appreciate it." 

Ah. So this is the infamous Elektra. Fisk has been complaining her for weeks, something about a deal that he wants her to sign. He’s not used to people telling him no. Naturally, Matt’s been curious about the woman brave enough to refuse Wilson Fisk’s calls. 

He doesn’t know much—she’s an heiress, the daughter of the former Greek ambassador. She has a number of business ventures, including a publishing house that she’s working towards merging with Derek Bishop’s, and she’s a fashion designer on top of that, but that’s about the extent of his knowledge. And now she’s sitting in front of him, armed at that. His night just got more interesting, that’s for sure. 

“From what I understand, Mr. Fisk is offering you over a million dollars for you to do just about whatever you want with,” Matt points out. “I have to say, I’m a little surprised by your reticence.”

“It’s not reticence, Mr. Murdock,” Elektra replies. “I’m simply not interested, and honestly, it’s very tedious for my assistants to constantly screen his calls. Takes their time away from more important things.”

The bartender finally refills his drink and Matt takes a long sip, savoring it this time as he considers his response. 

“You know,” he says slowly, “usually, when I meet a beautiful woman, the last thing on my mind is business.” 

She hums a laugh and reaches across him to steal his glass, her lipstick leaving a print on the rim. “You’re very pretty, but flattery isn’t going to change my mind.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to. Maybe I just wanted to tell you you’re beautiful.”

Elektra looks at him for a long moment, her teeth biting gently into her lower lip as her gaze flicks down the length of his body and then back up. He’s about to say something else—possibly apologize—when she surprises him. 

"Would you care to dance with me, Mr. Murdock?"

Matt blinks, then raises his cane in response. "I'm afraid I don't dance, Ms. Natchios."

"Not even with the right partner? I assure you, I'm a very good lead." 

He should say no. He should excuse himself and go back to meeting businessmen whose names he’ll forget the moment after he learns them. He should get some air or go home or anything else, because he doesn’t particularly need to draw extra attention to himself. 

He doesn’t. Instead, he rests his cane against the bar, holds out a hand for her to take, and lets her lead him to the dance floor. 

(It’s not because she’s beautiful, although he’s certain that she is. No, it’s because she’s dangerous. He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why, but between the way she’s armed and the way she showed up with a mind to throw a business deal back in Fisk’s face…Matt can’t think of anyone else who would do that. It’s possible she could just be stupid, but he doesn’t think so. No, she’s dangerous. And God help him, he’s intrigued)

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Matt says once they’ve made it to the floor, music drowning out most of the dull buzz of conversation from other parts of the room, “why exactly aren’t you interested in this deal?” 

"Wilson Fisk is an enigma, Mr. Murdock," Elektra murmurs. She's close enough that only he should be able to hear, even if anyone else was paying attention. Even if someone were to notice her speaking, they would probably assume she's simply flirting. Which...was likely her reason behind getting him to dance with her in the first place. 

And yet, she's saying this at a party thrown by the man himself, a party that she came to with a knife under her skirt. It's more than enough to make him want to hear more. 

"Oh?" 

Elektra's lips curl and he knows he's made the right choice. 

"No one knows where he came from," she replies, plowing on before he can interrupt. "Oh, sure. Everyone knows the story that's in the papers—neighborhood boy comes home to fix the city—how very fairytale of him. But no one knows where he came from, and more importantly, no one knows where his _money_ came from."

She leans in, her lips brushing his ear when she speaks, and Matt has to work to keep his face neutral. 

(Although he wouldn't be surprised if she didn't want him to)

"It all seems very nice on paper, doesn't it? But as soon as you start looking at all those companies, well. It's not exactly difficult to figure out that they aren't exactly on the up and up so to speak."

"So you're saying no."

Elektra hums in agreement. "Mr. Murdock—"

"Matt," he interrupts. He's surprised her, that much he can tell, but there's something deeply pleased, delighted even, in the sound she makes, dark and curling and wrapping around him like ribbons. He wants to drown in it. 

" _Matthew_ ," Elektra says, rewinding. It's practically a purr. "I have a wildly successful fashion line and what will, after this merger with the Bishops, be the most successful publishing house in at least half of the country. Wilson Fisk has...whatever it is he has. Tell me—" 

She falls backward into a dip, just slow enough that he can keep ahold of her even while slowing his reflexes to normal speed, and when he pulls her back up, her lips are centimeters from his. 

"If you were my lawyer," she continues, "would you recommend I take this deal?" 

He's surrounded in her—her scent, her arms, her voice. It's hard to breathe. 

"No," he breathes finally, and his lips just barely brush hers on the exhale. 

The music ends then, and Elektra withdraws her hand from his shoulder, only to move it to his tie. 

"I don't suppose you'd care to continue this conversation elsewhere? My hotel room, perhaps."

"I'd hate to disappoint a beautiful woman—"

"Then don't."

Matt lets his hand drift over the curve of her waist, opens his mouth to reply—

"Mr. Murdock?" 

Christ. He almost jumps. He'd been so wrapped up in Elektra that he hadn't even heard the approaching footsteps. 

Elektra spits something under her breath that sounds like a curse just from the tone. He can't discern the language...Greek, maybe?

"What is it, Francis?" He asks, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone. 

"Mr. Fisk has a meeting," the other man replies. "He feels your presence would be most beneficial."

It may be framed as a request but Matt knows it isn't. Elektra seems to as well—she's stepping back even before he realizes he should move his hands. 

"Duty calls," he acknowledges, a hint of the regret he feels edging into his voice. 

"More's the pity," she murmurs. 

Francis presses his cane into his hand, and in the few seconds he's looking away, Elektra disappears into the crowd. 

The scent of sandalwood and steel sticks with him for days.


	3. Head in the Dust (Feet in the Fire)

Matt's stepping out of the shower when he hears his name. The voice is all smoke and rasp, thick accent, broken English. It's a good act, that's for sure. Certainly good enough to fool the guard at his door who's about three seconds away from letting her through it, although that's not saying much considering the type of man he is. 

Not that the woman that voice belongs to has ever met a mark she couldn't pull one over on. 

Matt grins when the door clicks open, another small laugh and one last round of murmured flirting passing between the woman and his guard before it shuts again. He wraps a towel around his waist and steps out of the bathroom. 

"Laying it on a little thick, weren't you, Romanoff?" 

Natasha's smile is little more than a flash of teeth, sharp and deadly like the blades hidden under her coat. 

"Can never be too careful, Murdock," she replies. "Besides, you were the one who stressed the need for a really good cover. Although, I'm not convinced you didn't just want to get me in lingerie."

It's familiar and teasing and she smells like gunpowder and lapsang souchong and for an instant they could be back at HQ, flirting their way through training sessions. Christ, he's missed her. 

"I never said anything about getting you in lingerie," Matt shoots back, lips curling into a smirk. "Although, if memory serves, I've never had to try very hard when I did."

"Ass."

"You missed me."

Natasha snorts and rolls her eyes, but he can tell she's fighting a smile. "Debatable."

She hip-checks him as she makes her way to where his laptop is sitting on the kitchen counter. "Files are all here?" 

"What few there are, yes," Matt replies, stepping into his bedroom to seek out some pants. (Not that there isn't the possibility he'll end up losing them later, but he doesn't like to assume). "There aren't as many as I'd like. I've been involved in a lot more activities that aren't recorded anywhere, but he's getting sloppier so that might change."

Silence falls between them, the only sound in the room the tapping of Natasha's fingers on the keys and the whirring of the laptop fan. Then, the tapping stops, there's a beep and a click, and she's tucking the encrypted drive back into the hidden lining of her coat. 

"Is that it?" He asks, all too aware of the way his stomach twists at the thought of her leaving so soon. 

_Please don't go. Don't leave me here in this place, on this job, not yet, not yet, please—_

He keeps it out of his voice, but Natasha's always been more perceptive than most. She's looking at him now, so intently that he can almost feel the weight of her gaze, and he can't help wondering what she sees. 

_Split skin and bloody knuckles and dark circles because he doesn't deserve to sleep easily, not with the things he's done—_

"SHIELD isn't checking in with me until 0600. And I told your guard dog out there that I was here to show you a good time, so I figure I should stay at least an hour," she replies. Her heartbeat doesn't change as she crosses the room to where Matt's leaning against the frame of his bedroom door, but her gaze doesn't leave him either. 

When Natasha stops in front of him, she reaches up slowly, fingers sketching out the shadows under his eye. It takes far too much effort than he'd like not to flinch at the soft touch. 

"You're not sleeping." It's not a question and Matt doesn't bother trying to lie. 

"I'm racking up an awful lot of red," he offers instead. There's a shift in her heartbeat, a twist to her mouth that's gone almost as quickly as it appears, and he knows she understands. 

_I'd like to wipe it out._

"Do you want to talk about it?" She asks. 

Her coat is unbuttoned and Matt slides his hands inside to pull her closer, ignoring for the moment the way she's in nothing but silk and lace and bare skin. She goes with him instead of putting him on the floor, and her hand curves around his cheek. 

It's a valid offer, that much he knows. Natasha has never been particularly touchy-feely—she keeps her cards too close to her chest for that, and for good reason—but he could talk if he wanted to, lay everything at her feet, and she would steal a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and listen. 

(He's done it for her in the past—after Belarus, after Jordan, they'd curled up under his blankets fully clothed and she'd told him about a hospital fire and little girls handcuffed to beds at night and he'd just held her. He didn't have to promise he wouldn't say anything—they were, are, beyond needing to say those things out loud)

But that's not what he wants. 

"Not particularly."

Natasha hums in acknowledgement and shifts up on her toes so she could easily capture his mouth should she choose. 

"Do you want to kiss me instead?" 

(He's done this for her too—after Odessa when she'd shown up at his apartment and shoved him up against the brick, biting and bruising and raw. He never asked about the bullet hole in her abdomen, didn't say a word about the way she pressed his left hand harder against her skin as if the pressure change mattered—some things are personal, even between friends. He respects her secrets, whatever they are)

"God yes."

Her mouth finds his and Matt tangles a hand in her hair. Natasha is warm and familiar and _real_ and he kisses her like he's drowning and she's what he needs to stay above water. 

(They've never dated, never been more than friends who occasionally used the other to scratch an itch, contrary to popular belief within the SHIELD gossip mill. But Natasha knows him better than anyone and she's the only person, especially at SHIELD, who he's comfortable with letting see him like this)

Matt kisses her for what feels like an age before she shrugs out of her coat entirely and pushes him back into the bedroom. When she unhooks her bra and a flick knife lands on the mattress, his mind flickers back to sandalwood and steel for a brief moment. 

(Somehow he has a feeling Natasha would approve of Elektra)

It's only for a moment though, because Natasha drags her teeth over the tendon connecting his neck and shoulder hard enough to make him gasp. 

"You still with me here, Murdock?" Natasha asks, voice all husk and shadow. "Or do I need to step into your shower and take care of things myself?"

He growls and flips her onto her back, her laughter fading into a moan when his hand slips between her thighs. “Somehow I think I can keep up.”

“Prove it.” 

(He does)

Matt wakes up just before dawn, stretched out across the mattress, sheet draping low over his hips. Natasha sits on the edge of the bed, her hands busy fastening her bra. She stands up, then glances back at him over her shoulder when he shifts.

“Go back to sleep, Matt,” she says. 

“You’re leaving.”

“And I will be leaving whether you’re asleep or not, so you might as well get the extra rest. Trust me, you need it.”

He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillows. “That your way of saying I look like shit?”

“Your words, not mine.”

“Rude.”

“Always.”

Natasha scoops up her coat from the floor and shrugs it back on, pausing in the doorway. 

“Forget something?” He asks.

She shakes her head. “No. No, just—” She cuts off, exhales, and Matt’s about to say something when she finally continues. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Matt. You’re a good agent and you’re a good man. All of this…it’s just a job. Don’t forget that.” 

She’s gone before he can get his tongue around the words to respond. He doesn’t fall back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fisk was supposed to actually show up in this one at some point, but when it came down to it I really just couldn't with him. Mainly because he really doesn't like Elektra and apparently feels the need to get gross and misogynistic about it. So yeah, more awesome ladies instead. 
> 
> Also, leave it to my brain to throw WinterWidow feels in even though they have no business here XD

**Author's Note:**

> Work Title from Restless Sinners by Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Chapter Titles from Victorious by Panic! At the Disco and Stop Me by Natalia Kills. 
> 
> If anyone is interested, my listening selections while writing this were:  
> Sparring-DD S2 OST  
> Bedroom Hymns-Florence + the Machine  
> Monsters-Ruelle  
> Shatter Me-Lindsey Stirling  
> Stop Me-Natalia Kills  
> Six Shooter-Coyote Kisses  
> Hell's Kitchen Angel-MAX  
> Warrior-Beth Crowley


End file.
